


What Doesn't Kill You (Makes You Stronger)

by CassieWolfe



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Homelessness, Original Character Death(s), Powerful Percy Jackson, Sally Jackson Dies, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieWolfe/pseuds/CassieWolfe
Summary: When Percy is eight years old, a car accident kills his mother. Instead of returning to Smelly Gabe, he takes to the streets, meeting up with a collection of older kids and learning to survive. This is a Percy who has fought for his life. A Percy who is unafraid of danger. A Percy who has nothing to lose and everything to gain. This is his story.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	What Doesn't Kill You (Makes You Stronger)

**Author's Note:**

> So… I was supposed to be either doing schoolwork OR writing for my Batman story, but… this happened instead. Sorry not sorry. And I still haven’t got to the point that inspired it. Hopefully I’ll write the next chapter pretty soon. I plan on following the books fairly closely, but with a few differences.
> 
> Also, this is quite possibly the longest chapter I've ever written. Usually I post in 1,000 word chapters, but there wasn't a good place to break this up, so... no pressure for the next one.
> 
> Title is from "Stronger" by Kelly Clarkson.
> 
> Enjoy :)

The Greek gods are real. That's the first thing you need to know, if you're going to survive in our world for long. The rest you can pick up as you go along, but you're gonna get killed pretty quick if you don't believe. Don't go relying on them for help, though. With a few notable exceptions, they couldn't care less. Trust me, I know. In the past six years, I've been bitten, stabbed, shot and burned. I've gone through hell – and no, that is not a euphemism. If anything, it's a vast understatement. There's a great big world out there, and most of it is neutral at best.

Who am I? Well, my name is Percy Jackson, and I'm the son of a god. I'm seventeen years old – but that's not where we're starting this story. We're starting when I was eight years old and just orphaned… or so I thought.

To the day I die, I'll never forget the day of my mom's death. Not just because it was horrible – though it was – but because it marked the last day I could pretend I was normal.

Ever since I was a baby, I'd been different. Mom used to tell me stories about how I refused to sleep in my crib and would only rest in the full bathtub until I was a year old. When I got hurt, the scrapes lingered only until my skin touched water. Then, they faded away like I'd never been hurt. While I could barely read English, Greek and Latin came to me easily.

The one and only time Mom took me to the zoo, we made it to the marine exhibit and I started screaming. It wasn't like the many times I'd been swimming and little minnows had darted around my legs, giggling at me. Here, the animals - fish and seals and dolphins - were packed together and screaming desperately for someone, anyone, to help.

So yeah. I figured I wasn't exactly normal, even if Mom wouldn't tell my anything useful. And then she couldn't tell me anything at all.

Two days after I turned eight, we'd gone out for ice cream. Mom had been working on my actual birthday – thanks a lot, Smelly Gabe – so today was the first she had off. It's ironic, I've always thought, that in the end, it wasn't a monster or a god that killed her, but a simple accident. A car ran a red light while we were crossing, and in a flash, Mom was on the ground and there was red everywhere. My hands were stained with it, as they have been since.

The police came.

They gave me a shock blanket and asked if I had any relatives.

Knowing what I'd have to return to if I told them about Gabe, I refused to speak.

When they looked away, I slipped out from under the scratchy orange blanket draped around my shoulders, and darted away from the scene. My small size, as it would so often, had saved me.

That first night was the worst. I huddled in an alley, cold and hungry and miserable. _I should have kept the shock blanket,_ I thought slightly hysterically. I finally managed to get a few hours of sleep around dawn, only to be woken by a trio of teenagers peering curiously down at me. I scrambled ungracefully back, half-hiding behind a trash can. When the tallest of the three reached down for me, I bit him. I don’t regret it. No, really!

He just laughed, gave me a speculative look that promised mischief.

“Feisty, are we? Don’t worry, little one-” I made a little noise of protest, “-we won’t hurt you.”

I shook my head and tried to become one with the wall. The boy gave me a mildly annoyed look, but before he could say anything else, one of his companions touched his arm.

“Let me try.” The boy gave them a Look, but didn’t object, simply stepping back and running one hand through a mop of brown curls.

As for the other kid, they crouched in front of me and didn’t try to touch me. I liked them already. “Hey, kid. My name’s Beau, what’s yours?”

I opened my mouth and almost told them, before remembering that I was a runaway. If they didn’t have my name, I reasoned, they couldn’t report me to the police. Stubbornly, I shook my head. The boy – girl? I couldn’t tell – the teenager crouched in front of me sighed.

“Look, we’re street kids, okay? Even if we would sell you out, we couldn’t without getting picked up ourselves.”

I gave them a suspicious look, before caving. I wouldn’t survive long on the streets without allies, and going back to Gabe wasn’t an option.

“Percy,” I said. No way was I giving them my last name.

The dark-skinned girl who, as yet, hadn’t spoken, looked me up and down, before nodding. “Hi, Percy,” she said. “I’m Diana. Laugh at the name and you’re dead.” She didn’t smile, but I got the feeling I’d just been approved of.

“And I’m Anansi,” the boy who’d first approached informed me. “Now how about some breakfast?”

Something in me responded to his smile, and I slowly hauled myself to my feet, taking his hand with some trepidation.

“But first,” Diana said, “You need a weapon. How do you feel about knives?”

I shrugged, not knowing what to say, but apparently it was a rhetorical question, because she pulled out a narrow triangle of bronze that looked more like a sword than any knife I’d ever seen; it must have been at least fifteen inches long.

She settled it in my hand, and told me firmly, “Anyone bothers you, stab them.”

I nodded, and set off in search of food with my new friends.

The next three years were good. Different from what I knew and remembered, but good. I, along with my three friends, roamed the streets of New York, stealing from tourists and receiving handouts from kindly strangers. I was the one most often on beggar duty, as I was small and had very convincing puppy dog eyes. Of course, that came with its own challenges; more than once, Anansi had to come up with a way to get me back when a too-interested passerby decided to call CPS.

And as for the monsters that more and more often bothered us? Well, I got pretty good at dealing with them, too. My dagger, which I learned was called an _acinaces_ , was wickedly sharp, and though it didn’t do much except scare people when I waved it at them, it could make monsters explode into golden sand. Pain to clean out of your hair, really, especially when it takes special effort to get wet at all.

I grew taller. My hair got long, and I kept in in a braid almost all the time. Muscle started to form on my lean, wiry frame. There was never enough food for me to get fat, or to truly put on much bulk, but constant fighting didn’t give me the option of being weak. I outgrew the clothes I had when Mom died, and Anansi found me new ones – old, faded jeans, a light blue t-shirt and a black leather jacket from the Salvation Army bin.

Then Diana got bit. She was a demon in a fight, kicking and punching and stabbing anything within reach, but she lacked self-preservation and that proved her fatal undoing. It didn’t kill her at first, and we thought she’d heal, like all the other times one or the other of us were hurt. It didn’t. In fact, she got worse.

We tried everything. Ana stole medicines for her; Beau did their best to heal her. Nothing worked. Every day, she got thinner and weaker, and every day she ate less. Ana worried, though he never told me of it, because even in October, New York was cold and he feared she wouldn’t be able to keep warm. One day, I awoke, and didn’t feel her telltale heat curled behind me. We couldn’t even bury her, but had to call the police from a phone booth and then simply leave as though Diana, one of our quartet from the very beginning, wasn’t lying there cold and lifeless.

I cried for a long time that day. Then I stopped. Though I’d never forget her, grief was useless and I wasn’t planning on following her to Hades anytime soon. Instead, I killed monsters – especially the snake-ladies whose sister had killed mine – with fury born of sorrow. When the bigger, older boys who patrolled the streets like feral dogs tried to take our dinner, I thought of Diana and I made my eyes go hard and wolf-cold, and they quickly decided to find some other unlucky victim.

Anansi, though, felt her death much harder than me or Beau. His laughter stopped, and his smiles became rare. He fought without regard for his own safety or life, flinging himself into danger with near-suicidal recklessness. Beau tried to talk him down, only to be brushed aside. Though Ana never said anything, I knew he blamed Beau for not being able to save Diana, as did Beau themself.

One hot, dry day the next summer, the unthinkable happened. Anansi came running to get me from where I sat on a street corner, harassing pedestrians with huge pleading eyes and angelic smiles.

“Percy!” he said, panicked. “Beau’s gone.”

“What?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. How could Beau, the sweetest, gentlest person I’d known since my mom, be gone?

“CPS picked them up,” Ana said heavily. “There’s nothing we can do. They won’t be kept nearby long enough to get them back.” Sitting heavily, he buried his head in his arms.

It took a few days for it to sink in. When it finally did, I didn’t waste time crying like Anansi. Instead, I vowed not to forget Beau. I remembered them well. When one of the gangs that sometimes harassed us came around, I thought of Beau and I drove them away with mocking gentle-soft words and – as always – Diana’s cool, narrow glare.

Anansi didn’t do so well. At first, I thought he was just adjusting, but after a few days, he was still nonresponsive. I had to find or steal food for both of us, now, and when one of the massive red-eyed black dogs that hunted us sometimes showed up in the mouth of our alley, it was me that drove it away, while Ana sat huddled against the wall, barely seeming to notice what was happening around him.

When I tried to urge him up, to tell him we had to move, he shook his head and threw my hands off. Despite everything, I was losing hope, and my faith in him was fading fast. One morning, I woke up and Ana wasn’t there. Diana’s old backpack was leaned against the wall he’d spent his past two weeks slumped against, his two-foot-long bronze xiphos poking out of the top. A drift of autumn leaves had gathered around the bag. When I looked inside, it had all our remaining food and a few changes of clothes. Even leaving, Ana was still trying to look out for me.

Ever since running from the police two years prior, I’d had help. Now, though, I was truly alone. _The real test of your strength_ , Diana’s voice whispered in my head. _Can you do it, little hero?_

Spoiler: I could. Sure, I did things I’m not proud of, looking back. I put Ana’s lessons in lying and pickpocketing to good use, constantly moving around New York City to avoid the police. When people began to take too much of an interest in me, I knew it was time to leave. If cornered, I thought of my friends. I drew my lips into Anansi’s feral grin, teeth bared. I narrowed my eyes into icy slits and tried to channel Diana through my frigid glare. I thought of how Beau would speak, and I made my voice very soft and light and threatening.

The winter passed. I often went hungry, getting by on scraps I could steal or scavenge. One cold night in late January, I nearly froze to death, spending hours pacing and blowing on my fingers to try and prevent hypothermia. It’s a good thing that along with my other powers, I seem able to withstand extreme temperatures without much trouble.

It was early May when I met my newest friend. Scrawny and shy, with a muscular issue in his legs that made him limp everywhere, it was plain that Grover wouldn’t live long on the streets without help. I didn’t really want to help him; I was happy on my own. But I thought of my friends, and how I would have probably starved or frozen without them. The least I could do to honour them was help Grover.

The thing was, Grover freaked me out. He would watch me constantly, muttering to himself about solstices. The first time a monster attacked us, he totally freaked, so I figured he was like me. Most of the other street kids didn’t even notice monsters, or if they did, it was something completely different, like the time some one-eyed guy tried to kidnap me and all the witnesses just thought he was a circus performer, or the time a bunch of rather nasty seal-people attacked me by the river, and a couple of homeless dudes started screaming about alien sharks.

(Are alien sharks a thing? Who knows. Those things weren’t, though. I can say that with complete confidence.)

There were only a few of us that saw them like they were, and I figured Grover was one of them. The creepy cheerleader demon that did its best to kill me and then exploded in a giant fireball, though – that freaked him out. It made sense that he hadn’t seen many of the monsters, if he was new to homelessness, but he’d have to get over it pretty quick. These things didn’t wait around for you to absorb their existence before eating you; they just went ahead with it.

As time passed, Grover got more and more twitchy. He’d say cryptic stuff about deadlines and something being stolen – not that he knew I was listening. More than once, I overheard him talking to someone out of sight, which freaked me out considering I knew he didn’t carry a cell phone.

Things came to a head on a windy Saturday morning at the beginning of June. The weather had been pretty weird ever since Christmas, with constant thunderstorms and more boats than usual going down in huge sea hurricanes. Today it was muggy and hot, but with heavy clouds hanging over the Empire State building and an offshore breeze whipping up foamy white-cap waves. As always, the restless ocean bled into my mood, making me anxious and antsy.

Don’t get me wrong, my ADHD always made it hard for me to sit still, but that day was worse than usual. Something was telling me to move, to run. I wanted to go splashing into the water and never come up again. I wanted to swim the dolphins that I somehow _knew_ were playing out in the bay. I wanted to run down the sandy white beach with the wind in my hair.

I didn’t do any of this. Instead, I stole fifty bucks from some lady and got me and Grover lunch for the day. With four tens still left, I had an idea. Grover had been trying to convince me to go to Long Island for about a week now, and today I just couldn’t think why not. Sure, there would be fewer victims I could steal from or swindle out of their lunch, but would get me out of this horrible city and nearer the ocean.

We found a ferry, and paid the fare. It cost more than I expected, leaving only a few bucks for our dinner that night. We hitched a ride in the back of a beat up old pick up – and by hitched, I mean _stowed away_. I know. Terrible idea.

We’d made it halfway up the island when the truck we’d chosen belched smoke and ground to a halt, the smell of sulfur hanging in the air. Poking my head out of side, my eyes caught on three old women sitting at a roadside stand. There weren’t any customers, just a trio of leathery ladies with thinning white hair and several trays of fruit. The funny thing was, they were knitting. One held a giant blue sock; a second held its mate; and the third, sitting in the middle, held the balls of yarn. These socks, though, they were massive. Big enough for King Kong.

The women looked harmless enough, but there was something in the pit of my stomach telling me to run. I’d learned the hard way to listen to my gut, so I started looking for a way out. The driver was still looking at the engine, though, and if we got out, the ladies would surely see us.

As I watched, the one in the middle took out a pair of shears and cut the yarn. It gave with a _snip_ that I could swear echoed. The truck rumbled to life, and the driver got in and started away. I felt feverish and sweaty, and Grover didn’t look much better. He sat leaning against the cab, muttering nonsense about sixth grade. Maybe they’d done something to him? But no, pointless rambling wasn’t unusual for Grover. _Everything is fine_ , I told myself. I knew it was a lie.

“What’s wrong?” I asked Grover, annoyed. “Because, you know, if all this cryptic mumbling could stop, that would be great.”

He shook his head mournfully. “Always sixth grade. They never get past sixth…”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. I hadn’t gone to a school in five years. Everything I knew came from a library or my older friends.

The truck came to a stop in a gas station, and we slipped out while the driver was paying for gas. I was all ready to find a spot to hole up for the night, but Grover tugged on my arm.

“Come on,” he said, “It’s not that far now.”

“What isn’t that far?” But he didn’t answer.

The sun was starting to go down over Long Island Sound, and twilight was falling over us. I twitched nervously, one hand going to the acinaces on my belt. Somehow, mortals had never noticed my weapons unless I wanted them to, and having them within easy access made me feel a little safer. Dark was dangerous. During the day, most monsters laid low, but at night they prowled in search of prey. Now that we were out and exposed, it wouldn’t be long before something sniffed us out and came for its dinner.

Sure enough, a distant bellow made my spine prickle and my hair stand on end. Grover looked even more like he was having a breakdown, dragging me along like I hadn’t spent half a decade killing these things.

“Grover,” I tried to protest, “what are you doing? I got this.” For emphasis, I patted the xiphos on my hip.

He shook his head, eyes wild. “Just come on! If something goes wrong this time-” he cut himself off. “It’ll be fine. You’ll live.”

“Um, thanks?”

A crashing from behind us told me that whatever was chasing us was catching up – fast. _Damn Grover_ , I thought, _doesn’t he know it’s never a good idea to show fear? Better to stand your ground and fight your enemy face on._

Ahead of us was a hill topped with a giant pine tree. It was there that Grover was leading me. I tried to stay on the road – the more space I had in a fight, the better – but he was pretty insistent. The wind whipped rain into our faces, plastering my long hair against my cheeks and getting it in my eyes. We struggled through wet grass, thunder crashing every few seconds, lightning illuminating the sky. I got the feeling that something much, much bigger than the monsters I’d fought was out there, and it was angry.

Behind us, our pursuer bellowed again. I chanced a glance back, paling at the size of it. I’d fought bigger, sure, but this thing, with its bulky head and pointed horns, seemed suddenly very menacing. It snuffled around, then lifted its head and – strange as it sounds – mooed. I had a horrible suspicion regarding what, exactly, it was.

We’d nearly reached the top of the hill, close enough I could see warm lights glowing in the valley beneath us, when a second sense told me to turn. Sure enough, the monster was charging. I split from Grover, darting around to the other side of the hill. The Minotaur – for that was what it was – kept on at full speed, its razor-sharp knives pointed straight for my chest.

Drawing my two blades, I sidestepped and managed to get a slash in. Blood welled on its furry flank, and it turned, enraged. It was coming straight for me, and every instinct screamed to run, but I held my ground. Seconds before the horns hit me, I moved. My acinaces took off one horn, while the xiphos in my right hand plunged straight into its heart. Golden sand blew over me, and I stumbled. I’d been too late. The horn I didn’t get had speared straight into my chest, and blood was welling, staining my shirt.

But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep on. Grover grabbed my arm and pulled me along, over the crest of the hill. As we passed the pine tree, I could swear I felt warmth ripple along my skin. Ahead of us, light shone in the windows of a Colonial farmhouse. On its porch, a collection of people stood, but I was too tired to see their faces properly.

Before I knew what was happening, my eyes rolled up into my face and I passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> On OCs… I’m sorry, I truly am. If it makes you feel any better, originally, all three were supposed to die, but I just couldn’t do it. Anansi is a son of Hermes, by the way; Beau is AMAB and a child of Apollo; and Diana is a daughter of Ares and is African-American. They have backstories and a lot more character than I showed here, but basically, I just got way too attached way too quickly and couldn’t kill them off.
> 
> The acinaces and the xiphos are both types of ancient Greek weapon. An acinaces, also spelled akinakes (pronounced ah-KIN-ah-kees,) is 14–18-inch dagger used in the first millennium BC by various civilizations, including the Greeks. It was invented by Scythians, and I imagine that the one Percy is given was actually originally stolen from a dracaena by Anansi. A xiphos is a double-edged straight short sword used by the ancient Greeks. It’s usually 18 to 24 inches long with a leaf-shaped blade, widest about two-thirds of the way down. In PJO canon, I think Riptide was probably inspired by a xiphos. I never mentioned it here, but Diana fought with a kopis, which is a single-edged knife-like sword, also from ancient Greece.
> 
> I don’t know if links work here, but if they do:
> 
> Acinaces: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/c6/0e/54/c60e54062c1923d3c2dd0b2209d9bebf.jpg
> 
> Xiphos: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/00/91/23/0091233d54f945f041e034dcd52b4a02.jpg
> 
> Kopis: https://hetairoi.de/sites/default/files/2017-02/20160731-_SCT0787-Edit.jpg


End file.
